


Sometimes to Keep it Together (We Gotta Leave it Alone)

by chickenlivesinpumpkin



Series: Songbird [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, BDSM, Dehumanization, Dom/sub, Edging, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Objectification, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Relationship Negotiation, Total Power Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:47:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26431381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chickenlivesinpumpkin/pseuds/chickenlivesinpumpkin
Summary: Bucky says, “He noticed that I only come to dinner every four months. He wanted to know what the rationale was.”Steve nods slowly. “Did you tell him the truth?”“That I spend one week every four months living like a person and the rest of the time I have the autonomy of a coffee table?” Bucky lifts an eyebrow, pretends to consider. “You don’t think that would’ve made him worry more?”
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Songbird [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1960114
Comments: 27
Kudos: 231





	Sometimes to Keep it Together (We Gotta Leave it Alone)

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Despite the tags, there's almost no porn in this. They're too busy talking about sex to have it, sorry. :D
> 
> 2\. Title from the Eagles' "Wasted Time," which is surprisingly apt for Bucky's thoughts through the story.

They don’t see each other much on Monday or Tuesday—Bucky has therapy both days, and he’s avoiding Steve to the point of being a ghost. But on Wednesday, Bucky lets Steve find him on the balcony smoking a cigarette.

Steve slips outside, lifting his face to the mid-morning sun, liking the slightly too-cold breeze. There’s coffee in a fat mug on the ground beside Bucky’s chair, and Steve steals a sip before he sits beside him. They spend a long time sitting in the quiet. Eventually Bucky reaches over and takes Steve’s hand, and something in Steve unlocks.

“How are you feeling?” Steve asks.

Bucky considers, then sticks the cigarette in his mouth before holding his right hand out, dipping it side to side, wibbly-wobbly style. “Tired. Restless. Shaky.” He takes a drag off, blows smoke out hard. “I fucking hate this part.”

“I know.” Steve waits, but it seems Bucky’s not volunteering anything else. “Are you angry with me?”

Bucky glances at him. “Don’t do this.”

“It’s week zero, Buck,” Steve says helplessly. “I have to. You promised.”

Bucky gets up, abrupt. He kicks the balcony, but not hard enough to chip the stone. It is Tony’s place, after all, and Bucky’s endlessly respectful of that, even when Steve’s not. “Yes,” he bites out finally. “Yes, I’m angry, and resentful, and sullen, but not for any of the reasons your big brain is gonna get busy over. Fuck.”

“What did Dr. Ellison say?”

“What she always says. I don’t have to lie, there won’t be consequences, I have choices, it’s okay to like what I like as long as I’m responsible and compassionate with myself and others, blah, blah, blah. She still fully endorses hell week.”

“Week zero,” Steve murmurs, and Bucky shoots daggers with his eyes until Steve adds sheepishly, “Sorry.”

“It’s just…one of these days, my therapist isn’t going to be part of this,” Bucky rants. “Of us. Of me. I can’t wait for that goddamn day. When I say what I want and people don’t go _hmm_ and cross their arms and say _I’m not sure you should be allowed to think that._ Nobody trusts me. I keep saying what I want and nobody trusts that I mean it, that I’m allowed to mean it, and I fucking hate this part.”

Steve’s stomach hurts. He deserves this, he does. Bucky’s not wrong. It’s unfair, and he’s not wrong, but Steve doesn’t know how to let go of this one. “I know.”

“Stop saying I know. I know you know. You know fuckin’ everything, don’t you?”

Steve licks his lips. “You want me to go inside?”

Just like that, all the anger flees, and Bucky looks shaken. “No. No, I don’t, I never, I don’t want you to go—”

“Okay, okay, hey, hey.” Steve gets up and holds his arms out in offer—he never touches Bucky first during week zero, never—and Bucky only fights the impulse for a couple of seconds before he steps forward into the hug. “I’m not going anywhere unless you tell me to. I love you. I love you so damn much, Buck. Every version of me loves every version of you. I trust you, I do. But if you never want to play again—”

“Shut your mouth,” Bucky says wearily, and Steve does, just stands there using his body to break the cold breeze, letting Bucky huddle against him.

They stand there for long enough that Bucky’s cigarette burns to the filter. He glances at it ruefully when Steve asks if he’s going to have another, and then he shakes his head and points inside.

They spend a quiet day together. Bucky chooses what they eat for lunch—ice cream—and Steve doesn’t say a word, although he adds a sandwich and salad to his own meal. Bucky takes off for a few hours afterward, venturing into the city in jeans and a ball cap and a hoodie tugged up over it, shoulders hunching under the fabric, holding himself in a way that anyone else besides Steve might not recognize him. He doesn’t tell Steve where he’s going and doesn’t give a time he’ll return by.

Steve agonizes for a while, having to remind himself that Bucky was the Winter Soldier, and that as much as he eschews violence these days, he nonetheless is still capable of it. He’ll be safe. He can take care of himself.

 _He can take care of himself,_ Steve thinks, over and over. The fact that Bucky prefers not to doesn’t mean he can’t.

Steve goes to the gym, works out hard enough that his muscles are trembling by the time he’s done. Clint, trying out some new tumbling moves in the corner with Nat, gives him a cheery wave, but his returning wave and general aura must be indicative of his mood; they otherwise leave him be.

Bucky gets back a few hours later and doesn’t tell Steve where he went or what he was doing. Steve doesn’t ask. It’s week zero; it’s not for him to know.

Bucky takes a short nap. Steve reads a book. Later, when Bucky’s knuckling sleep out of his eyes, he wanders up to Steve and bumps into him nose-first, curving against Steve sweet as anything, his movements so different from the braced body language of the earlier balcony conversation that he’s clearly forgotten the date. He nuzzles into Steve’s throat, yawns in Steve’s face, then mumbles, “What’s for dinner?”

It’s the cutest damn thing Steve’s ever seen and it makes a lump rise in his throat. There are so many things that he loves about being in a relationship with Bucky, but he thinks his favorite is when Bucky burrows against him like a little rabbit. There’s no neediness to it, no desperation, just Bucky’s earnest desire to be at Steve’s side. It never fails to make Steve’s chest feel full.

Steve holds him, kisses his forehead, prays this isn’t going to go away. “That’s up to you, sweetheart.”

Bucky stiffens, waking up fully, and jerks away. “Right,” he mutters, looking around the kitchen, disoriented, mouth curving downward. “Right.”

Steve aches to take him back in his arms, but he keeps his hands at his sides. “Any ideas?”

“Uh.” Bucky blinks a few times, seems tempted to ask Steve for help, and then his jaw sets. “Steak. We have steak, right?”

“I stocked up last week.”

“Okay. Potatoes. Fries, I mean.” He hesitates. “Goldfish.”

“The crackers, I’m assuming.”

Bucky laughs, low and creaky. “Of course the crackers, you nut.”

Steve grins. He’d anticipated the Goldfish request and bought a couple extra bags when he’d gotten the steak. Bucky’s tastes are simple and predictable. “Coming right up.”

Bucky goes to the fridge, gets out a beer. He cracks it open and takes several long pulls until he kills it, carefully not looking at Steve. Unlike Steve, Bucky can feel alcohol, although it takes a lot to get him drunk. He drops the bottle in the recycling bin and pulls out a second. As he unscrews the top with his metal hand, he says, “I’m gonna pick a movie.”

“Sure.”

Bucky leaves the kitchen and Steve prepares the meat with the red wine and coffee marinade just the way Bucky likes. He hears the balcony door a few times—Bucky wandering in and out to smoke. Or maybe just to sit. He loves the balcony, loves to listen to the distant sounds of traffic and horns and the occasional burst of music. Says it reminds him that there are people out in the world, even if he doesn’t usually like to join them. It makes him feel small, he says. Less like an unstoppable empty force directed at nations and wars and international conspiracies. He’s just another guy, anonymous and invisible in the city.

They eat and watch a movie that Steve doesn’t pay much attention to. He prefers to watch Bucky, mostly from the corner of his eye so Bucky won’t get self-conscious. Bucky’s got one knee bent up on the couch, big bare foot propped on the cushion beneath the jagged hem of his jeans. His right arm’s extended, elbow on knee, strong fingers working like he wants another cigarette. His fingernails are short, blunt-tipped. The metal hand is in his lap, calm on his thigh. His mouth is soft, pulling down in the corners, the thoughtful dip of his cupid’s bow making him seem faintly young, defenseless. There are lavender shadows beneath his eyes; week zero is always hard on him, always leaves him tired—tired of his body, tired of being anxious, tired of being tired. There are a couple strands of gray in his hair now, mostly at the temples, but his jaw is hard as ever, his cheekbones as pretty. There’s a faint bruise on his throat, leftover from when he was sparring with Nat and Barton the day before.

“Stop staring at me, you creeper.” Bucky glances over, gives him a dry look with those big blue eyes.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Steve tells him honestly.

Bucky throws a fry at him.

They sleep in separate rooms.

*

On Friday, Bucky drinks coffee on the balcony and has a cigarette, same as he has the last few days, but when Steve comes outside, this time he gives him a smile.

“Feeling better?” Steve asks.

“Yeah.” Bucky cracks his neck, stares up at the blue, blue sky. “I think I’m gonna go out for a while. Run some errands. Take the day, you know?”

“I’ll meet up with Sam then,” Steve replies. “He’s been calling.”

“You’ve been avoiding him.”

Steve clears his throat. He can’t deny it.

“Maybe have him and Nat over tonight,” Bucky says.

“Yeah?” Steve shifts to get a good look at Bucky’s face. He seems calm, steady. He means it. He’ll be okay. “All right. What’s the menu?”

“How about that chicken rosemary thing?”

“Sounds good. Easy to make enough for four.”

“That’s what I was thinking. I’ll hit the store while I’m out. Want to give ‘em a call, see if they’re not busy?”

“On it.”

Steve gets up, then hesitates by Bucky’s side until Bucky tips his head back and says, “Come on.”

Steve bends and drops a soft, close-mouthed kiss on Bucky’s lips. “I love you.”

“I love you too, you big sap.”

Steve smiles and goes inside to make the phone call. Sam’s free and jumps at the opportunity, and Steve feels a little bad for disappearing on him for a couple weeks, but on week sixteen and week zero…Bucky comes first.

Well, Bucky always comes first, but the days that stretch through this part of the schedule are always the hardest on him. Steve can’t split his priorities in that time.

Nat wants to know if she can bring Barton, and Steve shouts for Bucky’s approval through the sliding glass door and gets a lazy wave back, so he says yes. Which he supposes means he’ll have to invite Tony or they’ll never hear the end of it. Bucky gives another lazy wave. And Tony’s agreement nets them Pepper as well, and by the end, it’s pretty much everyone they’ve ever met or fought with, and the whole party has to be moved upstairs, because Steve and Bucky don’t have enough table space.

“I’ll take care of dinner,” Tony offers over the phone. “If you want. Takeout? You like Italian? The food, not the people—Dum-E, I swear on Number 5, I’ll unplug you—Italian, like, meatballs and shit, you’ll love it.”

“I’ve had Italian food before, Tony,” Steve says patiently. “And there’s no need for takeout anyway. We were gonna make a rosemary chicken thing.”

“We? Thing Two is coming? Has it been that long already?”

“That long?” Steve asks, taken aback. “What do you—Thing Two?”

“Oh, you know,” Tony says vaguely.

“Tony—”

“Wait, you were gonna cook?” Tony’s nothing but bewildered silence for a second. “Why?”

Steve’s still hung up on that _has it been that long already_ comment, but he doesn’t know how to address it. Finally he just says, “Can we borrow your kitchen or not?”

“I don’t know if I have one,” Tony says. “At least, not one that has, like, stuff in it. Plates, yeah, I have plates, do you need plates? I don’t have a…garlic…smasher?”

Steve finds himself laughing. “We’ll figure it out. We told everyone seven but we’ll get there at five to cook, okay?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Tony says, still sounding confused. “Hey JARVIS, do we have a garlic smasher in the—” He hangs up mid-sentence and Steve shakes his head as he puts the phone back in his pocket.

“We’re set for tonight at Tony’s. He’s probably going to buy you a garlic smasher, though.”

“A what?” Bucky asks, squinting, on his way out the front door.

Steve makes a face. “I don’t know.”

“You just cut it up.”

“I don’t know. It’s Tony.”

“Truer words.” Bucky pats his pockets, checks for his wallet. “Be back in an hour or so.”

“Need help carrying the groceries?”

“Nah. We have most everything except the chicken and the herbs. Shouldn’t be too much.”

“Okay.” Steve knows he’s hovering, and he hates himself for it, but he can’t help it. Bucky’s mouth quirks and he steps forward, giving Steve a kiss on the cheek.

“I’m okay,” Bucky says.

“Yeah. I know.”

“Sure you do. See you in a bit.”

With Bucky gone, the apartment doesn’t just feel quieter. It feels downright empty.

*

Dinner goes the way Steve would expect: it’s a raucous event, full of conversation and laughter and teasing, no small amount of alcohol, and a lot of hearty food. Bucky’s holding up pretty well, even if he’s drawn a bit thin from cooking and all the people. Sam seems determined to draw him out, muttering things to him in asides with little darting glances at Steve that make Bucky’s lips curve. Making fun of Steve is the one thing they reliably have in common, and Bucky slowly relaxes.

Steve spends most of the meal sandwiched between Natasha and Tony, with Pepper across from him. They talk about a million small things—meetings and Stark Industries and pornography (despite Pepper’s best efforts to derail Tony) and meat loaf and how Natasha’s cat is doing. It’s a nice evening, even before they all abandon the table to hit Tony’s home theater to watch some cartoon about space cowboys that Banner gets frighteningly excited about but which Steve doesn’t see the appeal of, although that might be because he can’t make out much of the dialogue because everybody’s talking.

He does notice when Tony beckons Bucky outside onto the deck for a late-night cigarette. He keeps an eye on them, though all he can really see is the shadowed outlines of their shoulders and the red cherries flaring as they inhale. They’re outside for a long time, long enough that Steve starts to get worried.

Which is when Pepper offers to help him take dishes into the kitchen.

“Are they gonna be okay?” Steve asks her, despite his best efforts.

“You know Tony.”

“I do.” Steve doesn’t want to insult anyone by suggesting that that’s part of the problem. But he keeps thinking of Tony’s _has it been that long already,_ and it’s making his nerves jangle. He wishes he could see Bucky’s expression.

“He’s over it,” Pepper says abruptly. “Well, he’s not over it, obviously, because you never really get over losing someone, do you? But he’s over blaming Bucky for it. He’s read the files. They gave him nightmares.” Her hands clench for a heartbeat on the stem of the wineglass she’s washing. “Tony’s instincts don’t always match up with his decision making, but he’s brave enough to change course when it’s called for. In a perfect world, he’d always have time, between getting hit and getting the chance to hit back.”

“I would like that for him,” Steve says. “He told you, then? About Siberia?”

She smiles gently. “I don’t think he’s ever going to be up for a heart-to-heart on the subject, but that’s all right. With some topics, it’s best to leave room for everyone to enjoy a generous benefit of the doubt.” She hands him the wineglass so he can rinse it. “You don’t have to worry about them.”

As if to put a point to it, the sliding glass door opens. Tony seems energized, clapping his hands together, ready to MC the next activity of the night, even though they’re mid-episode. Bucky comes inside more slowly, expression pensive, flicking a glance at Tony’s back that seems thoughtful more than anything else. He settles on the couch, a little apart from everyone else, not really paying attention to the television. Tony thoroughly ignores him.

*

“What did Tony want?” Steve asks as they’re getting ready for bed. Bucky’s in his bathroom washing his face, and Steve’s loitering in the doorway. He’ll be sleeping alone in his own room here in a bit, but it’s Friday, and he’s starting to feel really antsy.

Bucky pauses in the middle of wiping a towel across his jaw. His gaze is a little hesitant. “You can’t get up in your head about this.”

“Okay.”

“Steve. I mean it. You’re gonna want to. And you can’t.”

Steve opens his mouth, then closes it. He thinks for a second. “I promise I’ll try not to.”

“It’s not commentary about you. It’s commentary about me. And don’t you dare get pissed or offended on my behalf. I’m fine. I was fine at the time and I’m fine now. So don’t get all _Steve_ about it.”

“It’s the build-up driving me nuts here. Are you gonna tell me or not?”

Bucky sets the towel down on the counter and turns, cocking one hip against the sink and folding his arms. “He offered me an out. He wanted to make sure you weren’t coercing me into anything I didn’t want to do.”

Steve lets that sink in for a minute, carefully controlling his face. “Did he happen to mention what made him feel like it was necessary to ask?”

Bucky gives him a stern look. “Don’t do this.”

“I’m not. I’m just—he said something on the phone to me, and I think it might be related. I’m trying to figure it out. I’m not in my head.” Bucky only stares at him, so Steve raises both hands innocently. “I’m not. I’m good.”

Warily, Bucky says, “He noticed that I only come to dinner every four months. He wanted to know what the rationale was.”

Steve nods slowly. “Did you tell him the truth?”

“That I spend one week every four months living like a person and the rest of the time I have the autonomy of a coffee table?” Bucky lifts an eyebrow, pretends to consider. “You don’t think that would’ve made him worry more?”

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to lie.”

The laugh Bucky gives then is ragged, almost bitter and it makes Steve ache. “The problem with admitting that you give power to someone else is that everyone rushes to care so much about your needs that they don’t listen to you anymore.” Bucky’s mouth works. “If I say that I’d be happiest never being a person again, the only thing he’s going to hear is that I’m not a person now _._ If I say that week zero is you being a fucking stubborn asshole yanking me up out of my chosen headspace to reaffirm consent even though I’ve told you a million times that I’d never come up again if you didn’t make me, all he’s going to hear is that for sixteen weeks at a time you treat me like an object. It’s all any of you hear. I say a thousand things, and the only ones any of you bother to notice are the ones that don’t fit what you think I should be.”

“Bucky, I don’t—”

“Shut up,” Bucky snaps. “Just shut up. I do it for you because you deserve to hear it. I know it would fuck with your head if you didn’t have a week zero, so we have a week zero. That’s a hard limit for you, and I get it, and it’s fine, even if it isn’t easy. But…you’re the one I’m fucking, so you’re the one entitled to the fight about it. He isn’t. I don’t—I’m not gonna explain that to him. He’s not entitled to that argument. Fuck!” He turns back to the counter and drags a hand over his face. “I told him I was fine. I told him I’m still seeing Dr. Ellison. He pushed a little, politely, so I tacked on a whole thing about how here, with you, I can just be a kid from Brooklyn. Anywhere else, with anyone else, I’m a lot of other things I don’t want to be. That one shut him up fine. And I guess it's not entirely bullshit anyway.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve says helplessly. “I know this isn’t…good for you.”

“It’s better for me than trying to do this with you worried the whole time that you’re raping me.” He picks the towel up again, dabs at a missed drop of water on his throat. “The only way this works for both of us is if we have goddamn honesty, unpleasant as it might be. Right?”

“Right.”

Bucky nods, staring into the mirror. “I’m kinda tired.”

“Sure. I’ll get out of your hair.”

Steve starts to turn away, but Bucky says his name. “Yeah?”

“He was worried about me. All right? He was worried. He might not be entitled to more than that, but he was trying to offer me a way out if I needed it. Don’t be an asshole about it.”

“I have never been an asshole a day in my life,” Steve says sincerely.

Bucky snorts and kicks the bathroom door closed in his face. Steve grins at it before heading for his own room.

What Bucky doesn’t understand, might never understand, is that week zero isn’t just about reaffirming consent. That’s most of it, since Steve struggled a lot with his desires and impulses when they first started this back before the war, and trying it again after Bucky recovered from being the soldier was hell on him. The first time he took a cane to Bucky in the modern era kind of fucked him up, if he’s honest. The fact that nothing gets Steve off harder than stripping Bucky down to his desperate, begging, animal foundations with a hand, a whip, a cock—it gives him some bad moments. They both had some issues with the way the game—on the surface anyway—didn't look all that different from what Hydra once demanded of Bucky. So that’s where week zero started, certainly.

But it’s more than that. Steve _likes_ Bucky when he’s not an object. He likes the part of Bucky that competently makes decisions and knows how to fix a sink that’s clogged and takes initiative and comes back from the grocery with a new spice he wants to try. He misses the grin Bucky used to wear—mean and vicious and darkly pleased—whenever he beat the shit out of someone who tried to start something with Steve back before the war. The only time Bucky wears that grin now is when he spars with Barton and Natasha during week zero, and even then, it’s only a faint approximation.

Steve truly does prefer when Bucky is utterly his, when Bucky is happy and in his best headspace, when Bucky is, as he calls it, Steve’s favorite toy. But week zero Bucky is the Bucky that Steve first fell in love with.

(In his secret heart of hearts, Steve’s afraid that if he lets Bucky disappear completely into being an object, it’ll be like losing Bucky all over again.)

So Steve will never, ever be anything other than grateful that Tony values some aspect of that Bucky too. Sure, a part of Steve is wondering just what Tony sees that makes him think Steve might be abusive— _don’t get up in your head, you promised—_ but mostly he just feels so grateful to Tony for being the kind of man who notices, who keeps track, who asks questions. Who cares enough to ask questions, even if they make a mess, even if they’re hard to answer. Tony isn’t entitled to an argument or an explanation, it’s true, but Steve can’t be anything but grateful to Tony for asking anyway.

Bucky deserves to have people ask.

*

The next morning, Saturday, finds Bucky shadowed and antsy and chewing on his lip on the deck chair on the balcony when Steve wanders outside to find him.

“Sleep okay?” Steve asks, although he’s pretty sure he knows the answer. Bucky’s cheeks are almost bloodless.

“A few hours.” Bucky’s hands are rubbing pills out of the blanket he’s got wrapped around his legs, pulling at them restlessly. Steve wonders how long he’s been out here. The ashtray’s overflowing with butts. “Bad dream. Couldn’t drift off again.”

Steve winces. Week zero is the only time Bucky gets the nightmares these days. “Want to talk about it?”

Bucky gives him a humorless smile. “Not even a little bit.”

“Breakfast?”

“No. Can we…I mean. Might as well get this shit over with. Let’s talk.”

“Sure you’re ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

They go inside. They sit on the couch, Bucky coiled up like a snake at one end, Steve square and straight-backed at the other, StarkPad in his lap, the stylus small and fiddly in his hand.

“Honesty,” Steve says, knowing he sounds stiff and pedantic but unable to help it. “Both of us, obviously. I know it’s hard, but…we have to be able to trust our answers.”

“Yeah,” Bucky mutters. “Yeah, I know.”

“I won’t be mad at you. I won’t punish you, and you won’t lose me. You’ll always have a place to stay, and you’ll be safe. No matter what you—”

“I know, Steve,” Bucky says gently. He gestures at his head. “I’m tired, not an idiot. I’m in a good enough place. I remember how to say no.”

With what he thinks is admirable steadiness, Steve asks, “Bucky, are you still interested in playing with me?” Then he holds his breath while trying not to look like he’s holding his breath.

But Bucky immediately says, “Yes.”

Steve exhales. “Okay. Me too.”

Bucky exhales too, which is kind of nice. Steve smiles at him, and Bucky gives him a wry one back.

“All right, then.” Steve opens the first document. Bucky grabs his own StarkPad and goes through it in kind. Steve’s always been the faster reader; he’s done first and he goes to get them each another cup of coffee.

“Anything change?” Steve asks when he comes back—Bucky’s done and back to staring out the window.

“No.”

Steve watches him for a second. “It’s a nice morning, huh?”

“Yeah. I always used to wish I was a morning person. I hated getting up during those early mornings in boot, but I liked seeing the dawn. Miss it sometimes.”

“Hmm,” Steve says, and Bucky glances at him and curses under his breath.

“I’m gonna wish I could take that one back, huh?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Steve says innocently and Bucky extends one foot to kick him—not too hard—on the calf.

“Sure.” Bucky sounds amused more than anything else, though. “Any of yours change?”

“Nope. Still good with edging? And the amount? Want to keep thirty a day as the limit?”

“Yeah, the edging’s perfect.”

“Any new wishes? Any ideas you’d like to ask for?”

“I—” Bucky clears his throat. “Hear me out.”

Steve closes his eyes briefly. “Buck—”

“Hey, that’s the opposite of hearing me out. That’s _interrupting._ Don’t be a dick.”

Steve shuts his mouth.

“And don’t make that face,” Bucky snaps. “We both know you’re gonna say no, but I fucking…” He makes a wordless growl of frustration. “I fucking want it.”

“I know. I said no.”

“You haven’t made it a hard limit.”

“No,” Steve admits. “And I’m not going to.”

“Then why the fuck—I don’t—Goddamn it, I just—come on!”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t.” Steve can’t help noticing the way Bucky’s drawn all his limbs in, retreated to the smallest possible space. “I don’t trust that you mean it.”

“Are you fucking—”

“Wait, shit, I said that badly. I believe you mean it right now, obviously, of course I do. I’m sorry. That came out wrong. I just don’t believe that you’ll continue to mean it.”

Bucky sinks back, mouth hard, eyes flinty. “You seriously think that sixteen weeks from now I’m gonna wish I could change my mind?”

“Yes.” He hesitates because he knows how Bucky will take that, and yep, he’s not disappointed.

“Go fuck yourself.”

Steve searches for words. This is the part that he struggles with the most—trying to explain to Bucky how unclearly he sometimes sees himself. “Why do you think I keep saying no? And don’t say it’s to be an asshole. We both know you trust me more than that.”

Bucky sinks back against the arm of the couch, frustration in every line of his face. “I mean, you say it’s because you think I’ll change my mind—”

“Right, but _why_ do you think I’ll think that?”

“I don’t know! I’ve wanted this forever, I’ve asked for it, what, a half-dozen times now?”

Steve considers how to phrase it. “Do you know that I can tell what week we’re in based on how you respond to me?”

“If I can tell you to fuck off without getting the cane, that tells me we’re in week zero, Sherlock, so same goes.”

“I mean I can tell the difference between the other weeks too.”

Bucky frowns. “You can?”

“Yeah. Not all of them—weeks four and five pretty much look the same. But later on, they start to stand out a bit more. Because it’s usually right around week eight that you start to cry in the evenings after I fuck you.”

Bucky’s lips part. His gaze narrows, darts sideways. He’s thinking about it. “Okay. So?”

“And right around week thirteen, you get needy as hell. Weeks thirteen through fifteen are my favorite. Did you know that?”

“No.”

“You’re hundreds of edges in by that point, and you’re…you’re so…God, you need it so bad, you get so desperate…it’s all you can do not to climb me like a tree during those two weeks.” Steve’s getting hard just thinking about it, and he has to force himself to focus. “But then week sixteen hits and those tears start to turn angry. Why do you think I picked a sixteen week cycle in the first place?”

Bucky’s eyebrows furrow. “I don’t know.”

“It’s because that’s the point when you go from being sexually frustrated to being genuinely frustrated _._ I can see the resentment. And it’s not just resentment toward the game or the edging, but me _._ Some part of you is not willing to give up your orgasms for longer than that, Buck. You mean it now. I believe that you believe it now. But you’re not going to mean it in week sixteen. In week sixteen you’re gonna start to think I don’t love you anymore.” Bucky starts to protest but Steve raises his voice, “You’re gonna start to think I don’t care about your needs. You’re gonna think I’ve stopped bothering to notice how hard it is for you. Because despite my best efforts and every new game plan I try, week sixteen hits and you get _angry at me._ ”

Bucky frowns harder, shaking his head slowly. “That’s not…”

“It is true. You start to snap when you talk to me. You jerk away sometimes. The way you look at me…it hurts, Buck.”

Bucky shifts his weight, angling his shoulders away from Steve. It gives Steve a pang.

“There’s a reason I don’t make it a hard limit—I’d love it if you never came for the rest of our lives together,” Steve says honestly. “God, the idea that you’d do that for me, the idea that you’d just get more and more desperate—” He’s hard as a rock, just thinking about it. He’s going to need a cold shower after this. “I’m not the one who’s not okay with it. And until you are, I’m not gonna ask you for it. And I’m not gonna let you talk me into trying it when I don’t think you’re ready, either.”

Bucky chews on his bottom lip. “I need a break.”

“Okay.” Steve sets his StarkPad aside. “Should I not have said that?”

“Honesty, right?” Bucky asks, even as he gets up. “I’m all right. I just need to think.”

“You want something to eat while you—”

“I’m going out.” Bucky heads to his room, changes into jeans and a hoodie, before coming out and hitting the entryway. He grabs his keys and his wallet and jams his feet into his shoes, not even taking the time for socks. The door slams behind him.

*

“What did you do to Thing Two, Steve?” Tony asks, as soon as Steve answers the phone.

“What? Why?” Panic spears through him, and he tries to take comfort from the fact that Tony doesn’t sound upset. “Is he okay?”

“Physically, sure. The man could arm wrestle Optimus Prime. He’s great. He’s golden. Well, silver. Well, stainless steel. Mentally? Harder to tell. We just talked for an hour about how dumb you are, if by “talked” I can mean that he showed up at my workshop, picked up a bunch of things _after_ I told him not to touch anything, rude, and then sat in the corner for an hour without speaking before taking off. It was weird. It gave me weird feelings. What did you do?”

Steve can’t help smiling, even as his heart twists. “If he didn’t say anything, how do you know it was about how dumb I am?”

“Uh, two degrees from MIT, long experience of fucking up in a relationship, a ridiculously high IQ, I asked Pepper, and a partridge in a pear tree. What’d you do?”

“I can’t talk about it. But thanks for the head’s up.”

“Steve, buddy, pal, you can’t make me curious and then leave me hanging like this, it’s not nice, it’s not buddies, it’s _mean_ is what it—Dum-E, I swear to the Robot Gods that I will—” He hangs up mid-sentence.

*

Bucky gets home late, well after Steve’s in bed, although Steve’s still awake. He’s left his door open, even if the light’s off, a not-very-secret plan that allows him to see Bucky hovering in the doorway. Steve sits up and flicks the bedside light on. “Hey, you okay?”

Bucky comes in and sits on the floor beside Steve’s bed. He kicks his shoes off, wrinkles his nose. “My feet stink,” he announces.

“Thanks for doing this in my room then,” Steve says dryly.

Bucky tips his head back against the mattress and Steve runs his fingers through his hair. It’s silky and soft without any product in. After a while, quiet, Bucky murmurs, “I figured it out.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re dumb.”

“I had a feeling. Tony called.”

Bucky huffs a sigh. “And said?”

“Essentially that I’m dumb, although he admitted it was just a guess. Because you went all the way over there to talk to him only to not talk to him?”

“I dunno.” Bucky hesitates. “I didn’t know what to say. I was worried that maybe I was missing something about week sixteen. What you said about how I get mad—that’s not how it feels. Not exactly. But I thought maybe I didn’t remember right. That I was being angry when I’m not actually angry, or that I’ve—that my brain was…I dunno. I still get scared sometimes. At the idea that what I’m thinking and seeing isn’t what’s actually happening. Sorry I had to take off.”

“Don’t apologize. I get it.”

“But I’ve been thinking about it all day. And I think I trust myself enough to know…you’re the one who’s wrong.”

“Buck—”

Bucky squirrels around on the carpet so he can look up at Steve. “I can do this. I want to do this. But I’m gonna need your help. Because I don’t—I don’t think I’m mad. In week sixteen, I mean. I don’t think it’s mad that I’m feeling. A little, but uh, yeah, but also…that you’re not…shit. That you won’t—that you’re not listening.”

Steve strokes his hand through Bucky’s hair again. “I’m not following. You want to break it down a little?”

Bucky pulls away, sits up straight. “I’ll admit it. I fucking hate it. I don’t begrudge you week zero, but I hate it. I hate knowing I have to be different, that I have to step outside of my comfort zone, and that you’re gonna make me make a million little choices that I don’t have any goddamn interest in making. I don’t mind. I know you need to hear that I’m still okay, and that’s—it’s impossible, I think, to say accurately how much I hate it while still being 100% clear that I’m willing to do it, that I want to, because it makes you feel safe, and your safety is every bit as important as mine, but…I dread it, Steve. And never more so than in week sixteen. Because your doubts make me doubt.”

“I don’t understand.”

Bucky takes a deep breath. “I’m not upset because I can’t come. I’m upset because week sixteen feels like one long walk to you saying that you don’t think I can do it. Any of it.”

Steve’s still confused, and Bucky lets out a soft groan of frustration. “Okay, how about this: us, this game together, it’s like a big pool we’re swimming in, right? And you’re dunking me. But you’re thinking I’m human, that it’s a test for me to be under the water and that eventually I gotta come up for air. But really I’m a fish. And I can’t breathe when you bring me up. And that minute before you drag me to the surface is like trying to suck in enough oxygen that I can make it through the break. I’m not freaking out in week sixteen because I need to surface. It’s because I’m bracing myself. You see?”

Steve feels cold wash through him top to bottom, like the water Bucky’s talking about. “Oh.”

“God, don’t look like that, pal, come on.” Bucky clambers up onto the bed, shoves his head against the hollow of Steve’s throat, breathes hotly against his skin. Steve’s suddenly surrounded by muscle and heat and broad shoulders, and it’s comforting, even if it doesn’t fix the actual problem. “I’m okay. We’re okay. You didn’t hurt me. Just…you’re reading my evidence wrong, that’s all.”

“I didn’t realize…”

“I know. It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry, Buck.”

“Don’t be. You were trying to take care of me. You don’t have to be perfect, Stevie. You don’t expect it of me. How could I expect it of you?” He pulls back, cups Steve’s face. Smiles ruefully. “I guess this is proof that your week zeros are necessary, huh? Since we keep learning new, fun things about each other?”

Steve laughs a little hollowly, but nods all the same. “Yeah. I knew you hated week zero, but it never occurred to me that it was infringing in your headspace beforehand. You think keeping the orgasm denial going might help you bear week zero?”

“I think week zero and my orgasm are things that we’ve been linking, but maybe they shouldn’t be. We can do them separate.”

“What are you suggesting? Coming at the end of week zero? Or a couple weeks later?”

“Or a few months?” Bucky asks hopefully.

Steve winces. “Baby steps at first, okay? Let’s ease into the cold water, huh?”

Bucky sighs. “Fine.”

“I don’t like the idea that you don’t come before week zero, though,” Steve says reluctantly. “I know you don’t want to admit it, but you’re different when you’re that horny. It’s like you’re drunk, Buck. No negotiating under the influence, remember? How do we deal with that?”

“You’re the master strategist,” Bucky says, sly. “I’m sure you’ll come up with something.” It’s a little mean, the smile he’s wearing, and Steve fucking _loves_ it. It reminds him of that mean grin Bucky used to wear before the war, and if that’s not proof that Bucky’s happy with their direction, Steve doesn’t know what is.

“But no pressure, huh?”

Bucky smiles at him, then leans in and gives him a tiny kiss right on the tip of his nose. “And on that note, I’m fucking tired.” He climbs off the bed and heads into his own room, tossing a jaunty wave over one shoulder as he goes.

*

Steve thinks about it. He thinks about it for long enough that Sunday turns into Monday. And then Tuesday.

Bucky’s still making decisions. He’s spending a lot of time in the gym downstairs sparring and working out to manage his tension. When he is at home, he’s taken to watching Steve with eyes faintly bruised with worry. Steve tells him over and over that it’s okay, that he’s just strategizing, but he can tell that the extension of week zero is wearing on him.

Steve keeps butting up against one unassailable fact, though: Bucky’s limits stretch the longer and deeper he’s under, and Steve isn’t sure it’s okay to let Bucky negotiate under those circumstances.

He comes up with one solution after another, but second guesses himself every time.

In the end, Steve asks Bucky’s permission to go talk to Sam, but Bucky viciously vetoes it. “Not interested in another therapist,” he snaps, “and especially not one who’s gonna muck up the works with a lot of questions about how we live that you’re going to twist yourself up in knots to answer. And even if he is cool with how we play, he’ll be on your side and I’ll never get what I want.”

“He’s not going to pick sides,” Steve protests, but Bucky’s not interested. Steve can understand it, he supposes. It took a long time for Dr. Ellison to build enough trust with Bucky to get through the heavy stuff, but Bucky’s never fully reconciled himself to the indignity of the process, let alone the idea that therapy’s anything but a painful hoop to jump through.

And to be honest, Steve’s a little relieved. Sam’s probably the best choice, but his opinion also has more weight. Steve and Bucky have fought their way to happiness over many bumpy miles, and Steve’s reluctant to hear Sam call what they’re doing wrong or harmful or abusive. Steve’s worried he might end up believing it. And he’s honestly afraid of how Sam will look at him.

Tony, on the other hand, already sort of suspects, and besides that, Tony is—for all of his flaws—one of the least judgmental people Steve’s ever met. And so Steve asks, reluctantly, “What about Tony, then?”

“He’s not entitled to an argument,” Bucky warns him, though he seems easy enough at the idea in general. “But if you just need someone to make you feel like you’re not being an abusive bastard by never letting me come again, knock yourself out.”

*

“Are you actually going to talk to me or are you going to hang out in the corner with death eyes too?” Tony asks in his workshop the next day, flipping open something metal to apply another metal thing to a separate metal thing. It clangs, and Steve jumps. He might be a little more tense than he thought.

“I’d like your opinion on something. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t tell anyone else, although I’ll understand if you end up sharing part or all of it with Pepper.”

“Is this about the weird shit you and Thing Two get up to?” Tony waggles his eyebrows.

“It’s not weird,” Steve says, trying not to talk through his teeth.

“It’s kind of weird,” Tony says, but he doesn’t sound that bothered by it. He knocks some stuff to the side and jumps up to sit on the table. “But I like weird. Weird is interesting. Wait. Do we need alcohol? Is this an alcohol conversation?”

“It’s eleven in the morning, Tony.”

Tony blinks, looks around. “Huh. Okay. Uh, breakfast burritos?”

“I’m fine. Really. Can we…”

“Nervous, huh? Sure, yeah, let’s go.”

Steve wonders if this is a terrible idea, and then he says, “Bucky is—we’re—in a—relationship.”

Tony stares at him. “No shit.”

“I mean, a relationship where—it’s just—we do this—thing—” Steve stalls out.

“Why don’t I make some educated guesses and you can tell me what I get right or wrong. Might spare you a stroke there.”

“All right.”

“You and the Buckster are keeping house BDSM-style. 24-7, I’m guessing. You’re naturally bossy, so you’re on top. And every four months, you take a break and he turns back into a real boy. Does he wear a frilly apron while he cleans the kitchen?” He gestures toward his head. “Just trying to get a mental picture here.”

Steve’s mouth gapes like a fish’s for a second. “No. He doesn’t wear an apron.”

“Shame.” Tony makes a face. “I’ll take that as an endorsement of the rest, though?”

Stiffly, Steve manages, “Yes.”

Tony eyes him with visible interest. “You have layers, Captain, even if you’re gonna have an aneurysm trying to express them. Guess that good boy image only goes costume deep. So, safe, sane, consensual, I’m thinking? He has a safe word, right? You’re playing by all the rules? Listen to me, I sound like a pamphlet. But the point stands. The other night he said he was fine and happy and there are little cartoon birds tweeting your love, but then, you know, sex slave and all—”

“Jesus,” Steve mutters. “Yes. I’m careful with him. I try to be really careful with him. That’s why I’m here, actually. I don’t know—he wants—I have questions about how best to—he wants something that I’m not sure I can—”

Tony nods as if he managed to find any part of that coherent. “Should we break it down further? I’m not being nosy, I swear. A little nosy, but not, like, completely nosy. Just wondering if I’m gonna need more input before I can give you good data.”

Steve sighs. “I control his orgasms.”

“Sure, yeah, sure, why wouldn’t you?” Tony pauses. “Wait, are you talking like, he only comes when you say or that you don’t let him do it very often?”

Steve can feel himself turning red, but he manages to force out, “Both. When we roll over to—when he’s a real boy again, to use your terminology—I make him. Once. And that’s when we debrief and renegotiate.”

“Busy few days then.” Tony nods, tapping himself on the chin with a screwdriver thoughtfully. “No wonder he’s like a skittish horse whenever we see him. He like it? Being a real boy again?”

Steve can feel his shoulders tightening. “No. He hates it. But I need it. To know that I’m not hurting him.”

“The good boy costume does exist,” Tony agrees. “Yeah. Okay. So what’s your question?”

“He wants me to stop letting him come. Ever, really, but particularly before we debrief. He wants to keep his headspace throughout, but—”

“Wait, _never?_ He never wants to come? Ever again? What’s the point of a sex slave that never wants to have sex?”

“We have sex,” Steve says, a little impatiently. “He edges.” He clears his throat. “A lot, actually. Which is why it makes me nervous, the idea of him being really, you know. When we negotiate.”

Tony stares at nothing in particular. “Wow. That’s…wow.” He shakes himself a little, sits up straight. “He’s probably pretty loosey goosey by that point, I’m guessing. Needy and all? Is there begging?”

“Don’t lust after my boyfriend, Tony.”

“I’m not, I’m not, I’m not. Swearsies.” He holds both hands up, all _I come in peace_. “It’s just…I mean, it’s interesting, that’s all, the idea of a big tough guy like Thing Two all sprawled out and desperate for it. I guess my mental picture of him is…well, it tends more toward the violent. I try not to think about it too much, if I’m honest, because it’s all—he’s all—in my head, it’s not—good. So this is—new, that’s all.”

By the end of the speech, Tony’s gaze has sharpened from earnest to taut, and Steve realizes for the first time that this might be a brutally unfair thing to ask of Tony, for all that Tony was the one to make the first move, so to speak, with Bucky on the balcony.

“I’m sorry,” Steve murmurs. “I can go. It’s not—I’ll figure it out on my own. I’m sorry, Tony.”

“It’s not bad new. It just takes adjustment. Forget it,” Tony says, clearing his throat and jumping off his work table to show Steve his back. He fiddles with some things, slaps something closed, and then turns back, all emotion wiped from his expression. “So you’re wondering if—”

“I’m sorry I didn't tell you what I suspected.”

Tony goes still.

“I saw a brief reference. It wasn’t clear. I didn’t want to mention it when I wasn’t sure. Part of that was self-protection, I’ll admit, but part of it was that I wasn’t sure. I couldn’t stand the idea that there’d be fallout when I wasn’t even sure. And I—I love him. More than anything. I couldn’t let anyone hurt him, regardless of how deserved or undeserved it might be. But I’m sorry I hurt you. I really am. You’re a good man, Tony, and you try hard, and even though we don’t always see eye-to-eye, I have tremendous respect for you.”

Tony doesn’t look at him. For a long minute, he stares at the ground, and then he swallows hard. He waves a hand at Steve’s face, and says, “Can we not? Let’s not. Let’s—that’s terrible, it’s awful, your face is having terrible awful feelings and let’s not, so you’re wondering if it’s cool to do a check in while your guy’s altered, right?”

Steve hesitates, and after a second Tony’s expression turns into a bizarre mixture of pleading and exasperation, and finally he says, “Right.”

“I’m guessing he’s all for it?”

“He is.”

“Then it sounds like this isn’t a case of him trusting you so much as it’s about you trusting him. You’re worried he doesn’t mean it? Or that he’s wrong? But fuck that, Steve-o. You don’t get to make that call for him. If you’re gonna listen when he says no, you’ve gotta listen when he says yes. Part of being in charge is mastering your own fear, amirite?”

Steve supposes that’s a legitimate point. Fear isn't always representative of reality anyway. “And if I hurt him?”

Tony shrugs. “People get hurt sometimes. That’s life, it’s inevitable, stuff’s gonna hurt sometimes. It sucks, but it happens. If you wrap yourself in bubble wrap because you’re scared of every nick or bruise, the good shit never gets in, either. And sometimes the good shit's worth a little hurt. Not advocating that anyone get tortured in Afghanistan, but if it hadn’t happened, there wouldn’t be an Ironman, so. Not suggesting it’s okay to be an asshole, but…give the guy a safe word, go easy in the beginning, do your best.” Tony clears his throat again. “After that, the chips are gonna fall where they're gonna fall. If it's bad, make up for it, take care of…You guys are fine. You’ll be fine.”

He stops abruptly, clamping his mouth shut, and Steve puts a hand on his shoulder. “Thanks, Tony,” he says softly. “I mean it. I really appreciate it.”

“Oh.” Tony is very still under Steve’s hand, but unless every instinct in him is wrong, it’s not a bad stillness. “Yeah? Yeah.”

“It was good data,” Steve says softly. “It was good.”

Tony leans into the touch ever so slightly, mouth working. “I, uh. Sure. Fine. No problem.”

Steve hesitates, reading Tony’s mood and expression, and then adds, “If you decide to mention it to Pepper, I’d be more than happy to answer any questions she might have from this side of things.”

Tony’s gaze flickers up to him, hesitant, wary. Then he abruptly straightens. “That all you needed?”

Steve takes his hand away. “Yes. Thanks again.”

Tony stares at the wall. “Right, sure, yeah. Anytime.”

*

“Do you think Pepper would dom Tony if he asked?” Steve asks Bucky that afternoon.

“Have you seen her goddamn heels?” Bucky asks, and turns back to his sandwich.

*

After lunch they sit down to finish negotiations. Steve’s a little nervous if he’s honest, but Tony’s right about one thing at least: they won’t get anywhere if Steve doesn’t trust Bucky.

It’s been ten days, and Bucky’s become listless, verging on haunted. The dreams are coming back in full force; Steve’s been awakened by his cries twice. It’s not unprocessed trauma or anything, Bucky says wearily when Steve tries to gently probe. He’s been talking to Dr. Ellison, and she agrees: it’s just anxiety. Part of Bucky’s problem with week zero is that it reminds him of what can go wrong when it isn’t Steve’s hands on the reins. “I don’t trust myself, but I trust you,” Bucky said all those long days ago when they took their tentative steps out onto the ice of playing again post-Hydra.

“Okay, here’s my starting offer,” Steve says now. “Feel free to debate.”

Bucky nods, curled up in his corner of the couch again. He hasn’t brushed his hair; his bare feet look strangely vulnerable.

“We try a nineteen week cycle, followed by a week zero. You still come at the beginning of week zero. Hold on, I’m not done, don’t interrupt yet. That’s just so I can verify that your agitation is related to the upcoming week zero, and not because I’m pushing your denial too long. However, in week seventeen, we’ll have a period of no-touch, followed by a practice round of negotiation. I want to see what kind of answers you give me when you’re not coming but you’re also not edging. I’ll want to compare them to the answers you give post-orgasm during week zero.” Steve thinks of Tony’s words and smiles a little. “Think of this cycle as a test run; it’s about accruing good data. Then the cycle after that, we’ll implement whatever we need to based on the results. What do you think?”

Bucky licks his lips. “Yes. Yeah, okay. That sounds good.”

“Really?” Steve breathes out, feels like every muscle in his body’s unlocking. “Any suggestions at all?”

“How long’s the no-touch gonna last?”

“I thought I’d play it by ear. Unless you want something specific?”

“Yeah. So I’m not worrying about what I have to do or say to make it end. Let’s say three days?”

“Will that be enough to clear your head a bit? I was thinking more like a week.”

“I mean, by that point, if three days doesn’t do it, nothing will. Add in some distractions, and we should be good. Movies, dinners, that sort of thing.”

“Okay.” Steve sketches out a rough schedule on his StarkPad with day one listed as today’s date. “Seventeen weeks from now, you’ll have three days without edging and we’ll practice renegotiating. Nothing will actually change at that point, though. At week nineteen, you’ll come and we’ll shift to week zero, when we’ll see how your answers may or may not change based on the new plan. That’s right?”

Bucky peers at the screen. “Yeah. I like it.”

“Good.” Steve smiles at him, warmed when Bucky smiles back. “Okay, let’s get through the rest of this.”

In addition to the calendar, there’s a collection of quizzes and checklists that they’ve accrued and revised together over the years. They bring them out one at a time and run over previous scenes, day-to-day activities, buying new gear, and any new books, movies, and tv shows Bucky wants to try, since he prefers not to choose what they do while they're playing. It gives Steve good options for rewards. They also discuss whether there were any meal choices that Steve picked that Bucky really disliked. Steve’s pretty familiar with Bucky’s tastes by now, though, and the only thing that Bucky hates is stuff he’s supposed to hate.

Kale is the next thing to torture as far as Bucky’s concerned, and that makes it an excellent punishment.

They update Bucky’s edging mantras and Bucky chooses a new digital calendar for Steve to keep track of his chores and edges in. Pretty black-and-white shots of wolves. Steve goes over their safe word, reaffirms that Bucky will never be in trouble for using it, and then, when every i has been dotted and every t has been crossed, Steve sets the StarkPad aside and says quietly, “On your knees, Buck.”

Bucky’s breath shudders out of him and he slides off the sofa onto his knees, made clumsy by his greed. He lets his head drop back, eyes falling closed, as Steve scoots over. He combs a hand through Bucky’s hair, finds it tangled, and thinks _oh, Bucky, what does this do to you?_

But he only kisses Bucky all over, soft, slow kisses, rewards, and cups Bucky’s cheeks. “I know this is hard for you, sweetheart. I know. You try so hard for me, don’t you? I appreciate it. I love you so much.” He kisses Bucky’s upturned mouth, just soft, and gets up. “Let’s get you in the bath.”

Bucky’s wobbly when he stands, and his gaze is already a little foggy. He follows Steve into the bedroom (theirs again, their bedroom, theirs, because Bucky’s back where he belongs) and strips off his clothes before letting Steve lead him into the bathroom. Steve draws a bath, makes it really hot, and adds a bunch of bubbles. Then he strips his own clothes off and they get in together, Bucky’s back against Steve’s chest, their legs tangled together, Bucky’s toes occasionally playing with the faucet.

They have to let some water out when it gets too cold and add more hot after about an hour, but other than that it’s perfect. Steve washes Bucky’s hair and tells him how good he is, and how proud he is of Bucky for pushing for what he wants, even if it was difficult. He scrubs Bucky’s skin and rubs behind his ears, and does whatever he can to make Bucky feel pampered and loved. They talk about the television shows they like and the movies they want to watch and the recipes they want to try, along with all the other meaningless, wonderful things that fill a shared life from day to day.

After they get out, Steve dries Bucky off with a towel and hands him a toothbrush. He combs Bucky’s hair gently while Bucky brushes, and then he watches while Bucky pisses. Neither of them are into watersports—it’s more that they both enjoy the knowledge that there isn’t a single part of Bucky’s life or body that Steve doesn’t have access to and control over.

And after that, when Bucky’s scrubbed and clean from tip to toe, when he knows exactly where he stands and how much he’s loved, Steve says, “Turn around and bend over.”

Bucky moans, a quiet softness that creeps under Steve’s skin. Steve pulls lube out from under the sink and opens Bucky up, taking his time getting him wet and ready, avoiding his prostate as much as possible, while Bucky lies draped over the sink like a sleepy sloth, quiescent.

When Bucky’s ready, Steve opens his jeans and takes his cock out. He slicks himself up and slides into Bucky’s ass in one smooth stroke, all the way to the balls. Bucky exhales softly, the sound vanishing under Steve’s own puff of breath. God, he feels good. How does he always feel so good?

He fucks Bucky sweetly, bending over him, dropping kisses along his shoulders, brushing his hair out of his face to touch his jaw. He moves inside him slowly at first, and then faster and faster, still avoiding Bucky’s prostate as much as possible. Bucky’s pleasure isn’t the point. Not for the next nineteen weeks, anyway, although that’s exactly what will make Bucky soft and sweet and grateful.

Steve’s given up trying to make sense of it. It simply is. Refusing to give Bucky pleasure is what pleases Bucky. It’s what pleases both of them.

And in fact, when Steve's done coming and pulls out, he finds Bucky only half-hard but smiling. He nuzzles up to Steve, shivering a little, and Steve kisses him again, a peck on the mouth, cuddles him close.

Eventually, when Bucky’s cock is flaccid again, Steve murmurs, “Go get your cage, sweetheart.”

Bucky’s breath explodes out of him, his eyes going half-lidded as he pads into their bedroom to get it out of the safe. He calls his cock cage “The Monster” and it’s not a misnomer. It’s viciously restrictive—a half-dozen rings around the shaft, the head gripped gently between five short bars of steel, a larger ring fitted around his balls and the root of his cock. The rings are kept closed by a padlock. Bucky can piss while he’s wearing it—he has wet wipes in the bathroom that let him clean the metal each time he goes—but even a partial erection is excruciatingly painful. The cage is kept in place by four thick, reinforced leather straps: one goes around his waist, another around each thigh, and the last, thinner, runs from the underside of his balls up between his ass cheeks to the waistband at the small of his back. This last strap is interchangeable—one version has a wide ring in it that fits between Bucky’s cheeks, directly over his anus, leaving the little furl of muscle utterly exposed. It’s large enough in diameter that Steve can fit inside it even at his hardest. The alternate version of this strap is meant to hold a toy in place so that the wearer can be plugged up while he’s caged.

Bucky brings him the latter strap as well as the plug that Steve most often uses at night. Steve gives him another kiss for accurately anticipating what he wants. He gets the plug screwed into the strap and lubes it up, then gets the cage in place. He pushes the plug inside Bucky, trapping all of Steve’s come inside—except for the streaks that’ve slid out of him and down his thigh and which Steve cleans up with a cloth. He turns Bucky around. With his eyes on Bucky’s face, he closes the padlock with a click.

Bucky lets out a low cry and throws himself against Steve. “Thank you,” he whispers. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure, Buck,” Steve whispers back, holding him tightly. “It’s always my pleasure.”


End file.
